Grief
by Barcardivodka
Summary: Tucked away at the back of the pub, away from prying eyes, Clive Reader mourned. Tag to series 1 Episode 6 Spoilers


Tag to Series 1 Ep 6

With grateful thanks to my betas. Any mistakes are mine and mine alone.

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Clive Reader leaned against the cushioned, high-backed booth and closed his eyes. Sat at the back of the pub, he was safely hidden away from prying eyes as he mourned the loss of Martha's baby. He'd already emptied a bottle of ridiculously expensive pretentious red and another sat waiting to be consumed.

He silently cursed himself for being an unmitigated bastard. It wasn't something which generally bothered him. He'd long ago learned to ignore others opinions of him and to go after what he wanted and be damned if it made him look arrogant or selfish. Sometimes, however, something made him stop and acknowledge his failings.

Like now. His chest ached with sorrow and he so desperately wanted to give in to the self-centred need to grieve. It was Martha who had to endure the agony of the miscarriage, made all the more distressing as it was brought on by a violent act and not by nature. It was Martha, as with all women, who had nurtured the beginning of life growing within her. He was just an accidental sperm donor due to defective contraception.

Clive had been a father by default.

He opened his eyes and wiped angrily at the gathered tears which threatened to spill over. He grabbed his glass and drained away its contents in a single gulp before refilling it from the second bottle and gulping that down as well.

After the initial shock of Martha telling him he'd fathered a child had worn off he'd been surprised to feel a surge of excitement at the prospect. He knew Martha had assumed his offer of support had been only monetary, and to perhaps help her with her workload during her pregnancy. But he had meant so much more.

He hadn't been certain he would make a good father, but he'd hoped that Martha would have allowed him an opportunity to try.

Clive put his elbows on the table and ran his hands through his hair before covering his face. In self-indulgent moments he had foolishly conjured up images of him and the child. At first, it had always been a boy, with a mop of blond hair and tall for his age, like Clive had been. He would have grown up with the moral guidance of his mother and her quirky northern humour. Clive had envisaged himself at his young son's first rugby game, yelling encouragement from the side of the pitch. Energetic and joyful Sunday afternoons spent in the park playing tag rugby had given the youngster a confidence and knowledge of the game surpassing the other young players.

Clive let out a snort of derision as he lowered his hands and refilled his glass, emptying it again in disrespectful gulps for such a fine wine.

He had shocked himself when his thoughts had turned to a daughter, a miniature of her mother. She would scold him as only young daughters' can of their fathers, as he clumsily tried to gently pull long golden hair into the requested plait. He would sit crossed legged in front of a small pink table, as his daughter served "tea". A Barbie doll would sit to his right and a large overstuffed teddy bear to the left. And as the afternoon turned to evening she would sit on his lap, and he would curl his arm around her, keeping her safe as he read from her favourite book.

In all those ridiculous daydreams, son or daughter, Clive had been consumed with such overwhelming emotions: love, happiness and an overpowering need to protect.

Clive let up a self-deprecating laugh that turned into a choked sob as tears started to slide down his face. He dashed them away with an impatient hand as he poured another glass of wine. God, he really was pathetic. He couldn't even protect his unborn child, how the hell had he expected to protect it once he or she was born?

He picked up his glass and stared at the dark liquid within, the wine glistening through the shimmer of tears, he blinked them away, but more quickly replaced them.

"Clive?"

He jerked at the call of his name, splashing wine over his hand and spilling it across the table as he turned to look up at the intruder.

"Martha!" He stood up awkwardly from the bench seat, the table impeding the manoeuvre. He brushed at his face with the back of his hand, horrified that this was the second time she had caught him weeping.

She looked at him with a worried frown. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I thought I'd…." Clive looked around him in desperation before looking back at Martha, his mind refusing to supply him with an excuse. "I … I was just, I just wanted somewhere … to think," he admitted as he dragged his hands through his hair, unaware that it now stuck up at odd angles.

He sat back down as Martha pulled out a chair and sat opposite him. "How are you … feeling?" he asked gently.

"I'm fine, Clive."

She didn't look fine. She look tired, her face devoid of makeup, but all Clive could think to do was nod; he was at a complete loss for words. He rubbed his hands nervously along his suit-clad thighs as he racked his brain for something, anything to say that would break the growing silence.

"Is this because of you not getting silk?" Martha suddenly asked. She pointed to the two bottles of wine, the second almost as empty as the first.

It was the perfect excuse, handed to him on a silver platter. Clive Reader, ambitious overachiever, sulking because he didn't make QC. It would explain everything, sat alone, drinking heavily and feeling sorry for his self.

He nodded. "Yes." He lowered his gaze from Martha's; he was loath to see the disappointment in her eyes. Far better, though, than the complete contempt he knew he deserved for allowing himself to grieve for something he had no right to.

"Liar." The word was softly spoken, and Clive almost stopped breathing as he lifted his gaze to Martha's. She pushed her chair back and stood up.

"Marth?" She knew, oh Christ, she knew. How the hell was he going to set this right? An apology wasn't going to be enough. Could they even continue to work together after…? His frantic thoughts faded as he finally registered that Martha had walked around the table and was sliding into the booth next to him, tears shining in her eyes.

"Oh Christ, Martha, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…" He looked down at her as she slid closer to him.

"You stupid sod," she chided softly. She gave him a wobbly smile. "You would have been a great dad." She reached out and squeezed his hand. "It's okay for you to grieve too, you know."

"It's not right, Martha," Clive said, "you ... you had to go through… all that … and I, I just... I'm so sorry." He rubbed his free hand across his eyes as he shook his head.

They sat there in silence for several minutes. Martha had entwined her fingers with his and seemed content to just sit beside him. Clive rubbed his free hand nervously along his thigh.

"The baby would have been my only chance to be a father," he blurted out. For all his cunning and deceitfulness to get what he wanted, he had always told Martha the truth. He would always admit to any wrongdoing if she confronted him, and for some bizarre reason Martha had never turned him away. They were confidants. They would argue and snipe at each, but they never betrayed each other's secrets.

"You're not exactly ancient, Clive," Martha replied. "You've got plenty of time."

Clive shook his head. "You know I'll never….settle. Someone else might not let me be involved. I wasn't sure if you would let me be part of the b…baby's life." He turned his head away and wiped the gathering tears away. He started when Martha gently turned his face back to hers, startled to see tears shimmering in her eyes.

"How little, or how much you wanted to be part of the baby's life was always going to be down to you, Clive," she told him sincerely. "All I would have asked was some consistency. One day, Clive, you'll meet your match," Martha smiled, "and you'll learn what love truly is. It will never be too late for that to happen."

Clive smiled at Martha weakly.

"Come on," she started to slide out of the booth, pulling him along with her. "You need some coffee to counteract all that wine." As they cleared the booth, she turned to look at Clive uncertainly. "We'll go back to mine … I'd like to … I need to ...talk, if that's okay?"

Clive nodded; he had an overwhelming desire to comfort Martha, to have her share her dreams for the child that would never be, for them both to grieve for the spark of life they had created.

"I'd like that."


End file.
